


Constellations

by folliesandfictions



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folliesandfictions/pseuds/folliesandfictions





	

“Wait a moment… no, still not seeing it. Show me again?”

Gyda squinted, her head cocked to the side as though that would somehow cause the winking points in the sky to suddenly coalesce into patterns. The campfire smouldered gently in the valley far below, the occasional laugh drifting up as she stared out at a clear night sky Morrigan had warned meant rain before long. She set her ale mug on the ground and sat back on her hands as Alistair leaned in so she could follow the direction in which he was pointing.

“That bright one there? That’s the point of the sword – turned up after the death of Andraste, apparently – just follow it up and there’s the eye. D’you see it?”

“I think so… what are those, then?” She took hold of his elbow, steering his arm towards several nearby stars. Alistair paused for a moment before responding.

“They’re… the pointy bits?”

“… Pointy bits?” Alistair nodded sheepishly. “Y’know, that’s what I always look for in eyes. The pointy bits.”

He shrugged. “I never said it was a very realistic eye.”

Gyda chuckled. “You surfacers have some strange ideas.” She drank deeply from her mug before turning to face Alistair. “Enough staring at the sky for now. It’s making me queasy.”

“Are you sure that’s not the ale?” He laughed as she swatted at his arm playfully. “I don’t remember any of the others anyway. If it wasn’t for history lessons back in the Chantry I doubt I’d even remember that much. Maker, they did like to terrify us with tales of the Seekers.

“It was always more fun to make up our own stories anyway. There was a particularly vivid one about a donkey, if I recall… What is it?” He had caught a change in Gyda’s expression: a sad, wistful smile as she gazed down at her hands.

“I was just thinking… for all the differences between up here and back home, there are some things that never change.” She paused. “Take off your shirt.”

Alistair, who had just taken a rather large swig of ale, spluttered and coughed. “I- what? You want me to- now? Here?” Gyda raised an eyebrow. “Alright, alright, as the lady commands!” He continued to mutter something less than flattering about Andraste and her smallclothes as he pulled his tunic over his head and balled it up.

“Okay, now turn around.” It was Alistair’s turn to raise an eyebrow, but he did as she asked. He couldn’t see as she smiled softly at the wide swath of freckles strewn across his broad shoulders, or as she shifted closer and reached out with a single finger.

Gyda felt him shudder at the unexpected touch. Gently as she could, she began to trace patterns and shapes as she and Rica had done when they were children. She narrated her movements in a low voice, piecing together the pictures into a story of the brave young stable boy trying to find his place in the world but finding only sadness and defeat.

“… But here… this is the griffon’s wing, to carry him away to a new life. Here he finds danger greater than ever before, but along with it he finds purpose and happiness.” Gyda faltered for a moment as she swept freckles into feathers across his shoulder blade. “At least, I think he does.”

She couldn’t see Alistair’s smile as he reached up and gently took hold of her wrist; he drew her bare arm over his shoulder and held it there with the palm facing up. She had to kneel up to reach, resting her weight against his back. He planted the smallest of kisses in the crook of her elbow before beginning to draw; the freckles on Gyda’s forearm were sparser than his own, so he took a few creative liberties as he linked them up in the unmistakable shape of a flower.

Turning to the woman peering over his shoulder, he smiled. “I think he does, too.”


End file.
